


Don't Cross The Bar

by asteroidhearts



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Bad Flirting, F/M, Flirting, Funny, Reader is a bartender, Romance, long cameo tbh, stan the man rules tho, yuuuuuh stan lee makes a v impt cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 11:59:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6115768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asteroidhearts/pseuds/asteroidhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Never cross the bar, because once you cross the bar, it gets messy."</i> –Nick Miller (<i>New Girl</i>, ‘Bathtub’ episode)</p><p>You are a bartender, and Loki is at the bar in want of a woman. Then he sees you. He doesn't give up even when you turn him down... several times.</p><p>Will you <i>please</i> just give him a chance?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Cross The Bar

**Author's Note:**

> okie. sooo.
> 
> couple of things: TONS of alcohol content in this one-shot. i had to do some researching.
> 
> DISCLAIMERS: (1) the mixes here are invented, as far as i know [except one which is based off of a mix in the Deadpool movie. you'll know it when you read it]. so idk if they taste good. (2) some ideas are based off of the 'Bathtub' ep of New Girl. (3) i personally don't support alcoholism, but that's just me. (4) not for commercial use. (5) if you decide to try out some of the mixes, lmk how it works out. pls don't sue if it doesn't work out well.
> 
> anyway, this is a fun one. i'm inching away from my sappy stories a bit & trying out comedy.
> 
> enjoy, & leave love!

 

 

“I’d like a Rough Sex, please.”

 

You raise a finger in the air, acknowledging the order.  “One Rough Sex, coming up.”

 

Before hurrying over to the hard-liquor taps, you take three more orders from two men and one woman: one shot of vodka (a Stalin), one gin-tonic (Broke College Kid Tears), and one Caribbean Isles.  It is a relatively normal night at the bar, people are ordering regular yet unique items from the bar menu, and it is only 8 p.m.

 

You’ve been working at this bar for… goodness, how long?  Eight years?  It started out as a part-time occupation, something to help pay the fluctuating rent along with accounting.  But when being an accountant became a drag, you turned to bartending.  Numbers and Excel files were now your enemy, and the slurs of drunk '80s/'90s kids and the mixed smell of alcohol turned into loyal friends.  You traded in your pantsuit for a crisp white dress shirt and a black apron, and couldn’t have loved it more.  Your parents and friends, on the other hand, took their time in understanding your bizarre life choice.  Apparently, “Accounting isn’t right for me” and "I really love bartending" were the wrong answers to their plethora of questions.

 

Still, you stayed at the bar despite the doubts and protestations.

 

The bar is a high-end, hole-in-the-wall establishment.  That is an unusual combination but it exists.  Even more so, the bar is extremely one-of-a-kind.  For one, a person doesn’t go to The Layers out of the blue; they go because someone’s uncle’s best friend’s second-cousin-once-removed recommended it to them.  Also, The Layers is a lot like the Room of Requirement: it doesn’t appear until a person absolutely needs it.

 

And a lot of people do need it.  Not just because of the friendly atmosphere or the comfortable couches; the gorgeous male and female patrons or even the aesthetically pleasing architecture of the place.  Those are just bonuses.  The main reason: the drinks, because The Layers wouldn’t be The Layers without its drinks.

 

Drinks at The Layers are, more or less, normal.  A person can have the average drinks – gin, cocktail, whiskey, vodka, Seltzer for the sober, water for the hipster, others – as well as the more complicated ones which have ingredients as lengthy and specific as that of a “secret” Starbucks drink.  The only exception is that the names of Layers drinks, both the simple and the complex, do not score a 14 on the pH scale, so to speak.  No, The Layers goes above and beyond in nomenclature.

 

Take the first order, for example.  _Rough Sex_ translates into a glass of vodka, chocolate milk, a teensy bit of water, and Reddi-wip swirled on top.  (Cherry topping or chocolate shavings: optional, extra dollar each.)  The result is, well, rough sex in the throat: a little violent, but orgasmic-like pleasant.

 

Rough Sex is your signature drink.  Out of the five bartenders who alternate within the day, you are the only one who has perfected the amazing concoction.  In fact, people who crave Rough Sex come to the bar only when you’re the one bartending.  It’s a little weird that they know your shifts.  But if you were being honest, Rough Sex is your favorite mix.  A glass of Kilauean Eruption (red-tinted vodka, honey, and a pineapple cube) is a close second, only because the outcome of it looks like a fifth-grade science experiment.

 

“Where’s my Rough Sex guy?” you ask no one in particular.  A man in a leather jacket raises his hand, and you slide the glass to him.

 

“Can I get a cherry?” he asks.

 

You reach under the counter into a plastic container of maraschino cherries and throw one out to him.  He catches it and pops it into his mouth before paying for the drink, dollar included for the cherry.

 

For some unknown reason, mixing drinks makes you sweaty.  In addition to the cluster of bodies in the bar, too, probably.  Droplets of sweat form and hang from the tips of your shoulder-length hair.  Bartending is a little like a weird workout of arm exercise in a sauna, only the sauna is pumping crappy pop music and you’re standing in the middle of the steam fog, blazing hot and perspiring like a runner in the Summer Olympics.

 

“Hey, Ranger!” you call out behind you at the Mexican man wiping mugs.  “Could you turn up the AC?  It’s getting a little hellish.”

 

Ranger goes to turn up the air-conditioning, and soon you feel the coldness breathe down on your glistening neck.  As you slide respective shots of Stalin and gin-tonic towards the men who ordered them, you are completely oblivious to a certain man sitting across the room.

 

This man shouldn’t have been allowed in the bar.

 

The man shouldn’t have been let loose in public, period.  He is the same man who appeared on TV that one time a couple of years ago.  The Layers is located in the Bronx, and the man was spotted in Manhattan… along with a legion of five-thumbed aliens and enormous ticks seeping from a _freaking hole_ in the _freaking_ _sky_.

 

But you don’t notice him, and he doesn’t notice you.  Not yet.

 

Right now, you have to concentrate on the Caribbean Isles.  The daiquiri-margarita-Kool-Aid hybrid is a tiny bit tricky to make, especially if you were a perfectionist…and you are.  The drink is to be put in a tall glass, and from the color scheme picked out by the customer, the result should have a hazy lava-lamp effect.  The ice cubes must glisten just _right_ within the mix, without destroying the artsy effect.

 

“My lady friend,” you address the woman who ordered the hybrid without looking up from the glass.  “What were your colors?”

 

She tilts her head.  “Sorry.  Colors?”

 

 _First-timer_ , you think curiously.  “You see, Caribbean Isles is a Layers-original.  When perfectly made, it’s the most beautiful drink you’ll ever see.  Don’t mean to be sexist but it’s usually ladies who order it.  It comes in _beach_ , which is blues and yellows, and _sunset_ , which is pinks and oranges.  Which one is you?”

 

The lady’s eyes twinkle a little, a playful smile on her lips.  “Well, what do _you_ recommend?”

 

You could practically taste the flirting in her words.  _No way in hell_ , you mentally shake your head.  Your haircut and bartender outfit seem to be throwing people off – both guys and girls think you’re gay, when you’re as straight as a sword.  You don’t mean offense.  It’s just that being assumed as someone you’re not throws you off.

 

“I recommend a better drink,” you respond without sounding too pointed.  The lady’s smile drops and she chooses beach.  You force yourself not to smirk.

 

“Pumpkin,” someone from behind you slurs.

 

Your face lights up as you turn around and wave at the most vintage patron of the bar.  “Stan the Man!  How’re you?”

 

The old man, sporting his wide-rimmed glasses and grey mustache, nods somberly on his stool.  “Still rockin’, sweetheart.  I’ll have a brandy after that, okay?”

 

“For sure, Stan!” you reply enthusiastically.  His daughter is trying to get Stan to quit drinking, so you started brewing the strongest English tea you could find and serving that to him as brandy.  So far it’s working, but you have his daughter’s number just in case.

 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, the man is hitting it up with a brunette bombshell.  Tonight, he is not wearing his princely Asgardian clothes, but rather a sharp charcoal suit that hugged his physique just perfect.  His raven hair is slicked back, green eyes shining with trouble.  The brunette he leans a little too close to has no idea with whom she is currently sharing oxygen.  Her speech is accented – Dutch, perhaps.  She wears a burgundy dress that reveals a deep cleavage.  Her smile is a little wide, sly and inviting, a perfect match to the man’s.

 

“So tell me what you do, Anna,” he asks her, making sure to deepen his voice.  He likes to play this game with unsuspecting women anywhere.  They all adore him even if he barely said hello.

 

“I don’t think you would enjoy it much,” Anna replies, giggling playfully.

 

He chuckles, a thick rumble originating from the depths of his larynx.  Anna’s eyes widen at the glorious sound.  She decides that she will bed this man tonight.

 

“You’ll be surprised by how much I can listen to,” he replies, grinning like an underwear model.  He inches his hand closer to Anna’s, both on the table and on the couch.  “And I know a beautiful woman like yourself has some things to tell.”

 

As expected, Anna is convinced and charmed and entrapped by this man whose name, she learned earlier, is Loki.  “That’s a funny name,” she said, and Loki masked his rage by biting his bottom lip – while smiling, of course.  Every move he makes is calculated and directed to luring this woman into bed with him, and he knows that when he laughed she already agreed to it.  Still, he wants to play it out, doing an outstanding job of feigning interest while tuning out her shrill voice.

 

Nobody at the Tower knows where Loki is.  While he flirts to no end with this average-looking woman at this mediocre Midgardian pub, the people at the Tower are all frantic.  Thor is especially angry, having already smashed the coffee table in the lounge area.  Three people are technically to blame: Loki overheard Romanov, Barton, and Stark conversing yesterday about a bar in the Bronx that may or may not be the façade of a mafia base.  Loki was feeling lonely, and wanted to experience mating with a lower creature.  The bar in discussion seemed like a good place to start.

 

Anna is in the middle of relaying her teacher adventures (she is a foreign-language teacher at a high school in Long Island, on vacation for the summer) when Loki decides to brush a stray hair on her face behind her ear.  Anna’s cheeks are set ablaze when his skin touches hers.  Her abdomen tightens with desire, but before she seals the deal with her lips on his, she looks up to find Loki staring at something past her left ear.

 

She follows his gaze and notes nothing particular.  “Is everything all right, Loki?”

 

The man doesn’t reply.  He keeps staring, his thin lips straight and face contorted in pure seriousness.  The cogwheels in his head begin to whir as the image of the bartender is imprinted on his retinas.

 

If Anna was average, then there is absolutely _nothing_  remarkable about the bartender… except there is.  Loki attempts to spot that difference, but he grows restless when he can’t.  Maybe it’s the sweat-stache above her upper lip, or the way the bar’s fluorescent lights settle on her cheeks and neck, but he literally cannot take his eyes away from her.

 

From you.

 

You lay the tall glass under the beaches lady's chin, sticking a thin straw into it.  “Caribbean beach.  Enjoy.”

 

The lady’s previous bitterness towards you ebbs when her eyes settle on the concoction.  Your description is on-point, except you missed out explaining that a beach-themed Caribbean Isles _actually resembles a beach_.  The bottom of the glass is a swirling golden yellow (margarita) like sand, and the edges of the ice cubes look like sea shells wedged between.  Above it is a light cerulean (blueberry daiquiri), thick and rippling like the ocean.  Sky-blue Kool-Aid paints the top, fading out into a transparent azure at the surface where a lemon slice floats – a flat, pulpy sun.

 

“Don’t get drunk on the sights, lady,” you smirk as you grab the fake brandy for Stan the Man.  “The drink’s supposed to do that for you.”

 

After reminding the lady to pay, you stroll to the end of the counter in front of Stan.  Grinning innocently, you put two ice cubes in a glass and pour the tea over, mimicking a brandy pour.  The tea cooperates, settling over the ice cubes like a gentle waterfall.  Stan’s face shines.

 

“On the rocks, and on the house,” you smile at Stan, passing it to him.

 

“Sweetheart, you’ve got the most golden heart,” he replies, taking a sharp swig of the drink.  He scrunches his face like the drink is alcoholic.  His taste buds are too weak to recognize the difference.

 

“Aw, Stan.  Your heart is platinum,” you return, and he almost cries in gratitude.

 

Before Stan the Man breaks out in sobs, a man sidles up to the stool beside him.  As it is your job to attend to all customers, you turn to the man.  Your eyes grow to the size of dwarf planets: this man is _definitely_ new, and he is _definitely_ bad news.  His tailored dark-grey suit and wide grin are enough to send shivers down your spine.  His green eyes are fighting your brown ones.  His cheekbones can probably cut through wood.  But you must maintain bartender bearing, so you muster up your laxest voice and address the man.

 

“What’s for you tonight, my sir?”

 

He chuckles, and your eyebrows furrow for a split-second.  He licks his bottom lip before saying, “I’d like… whatever it is that _you_ would order.”

 

You can’t help but snort.  His smile falters a little as you stare at him for several seconds, suppressing the laughter bubbling in your throat.  Sticking your tongue against the inside of your cheek, you mull over options for a bit, making sure you aren’t showing your amusement too obviously.

 

“I’d order anything,” you say, playing it safe.

 

He regains his composure, completely oblivious to Anna stomping out of the bar behind him.  He settles on the stool with a creaking slowness, and you almost cringe when he leans forward just enough to be three inches from your face.  He is especially tall, so the bar separating you from him is no problem.  The floor behind the bar is elevated also, so you were almost eye-to-eye with him.  It’s your rule-of-thumb not to cross the bar in situations such as this; the land beyond is just too dangerous.

 

Well, at _least_ he knows you’re straight.

 

“Anything?” he inquires, an eyebrow raised.  “I wouldn’t take a dainty lady such as yourself as one to consume absinthe.”

 

 _Ugh, he is worse than a Posh_ , you judge in disgust.  His accent is London, but not exactly... whatever that means.

 

“ _Bah_ ,” Stan protests from the man’s right.  He swishes his tea in the air.  “I’ve seen her chug a bottle o’ Scotch, sonny.  She ain’t dainty; she’s as strong as they come.”

 

A gentle smile worms its way to your lips.  Stan tilts his drink at you, taking another swig before pouring himself his own refill.  Meanwhile, the man watches the way your lips stretch over your teeth.  They are not rouged like Anna’s, or any other woman’s in the bar.  He notes a trace of balm.  Your simplicity enamors him.

 

“May I know your name?” he finally asks.  He catches himself too late with the question.  It was too politely worded to his liking, so he adds, “I want to see you as the beautiful woman you are, rather than my server.”

 

“ _Ha-ha_ ,” you sarcastically say.  “Don’t you worry, mister.  It’s my _job_ to serve you.”

 

He leans forward more, maintaining eye contact.  “Oh, but I insist.”

 

You tap the counter, a fake smile on your face.  “No need to.”

 

Stan glances around.  “Pumpkin, switch the record, won’t you?  I’m not a fan of this... whatever this is.  I don’t know why they call it music.”

 

You pat Stan’s hand sincerely.  “Neither do I, Stan.  No worries.”

 

The other man watches you walk away and ponders why you’re blocking his attempts.  Usually by the second try the woman gives up and hands over her name to him like a fragile toy.  Still, he doesn’t surrender.  When you return from wherever it is you went to, a towel is hung over your shoulder, and the song has changed from something burly to a lighter beat.

 

“Dandy as always, doll,” Stan compliments your music taste.  You give him a wink before wiping the counter.

 

“I am Loki,” the man introduces himself.

 

“And _I_ work here,” you reply without looking up.

 

Loki dodges the bullet.  “I’ll take a 911.”

 

You stop wiping altogether.  A few people hear the man’s order and turn to him with incredulous looks.  He can’t have said…

 

“911?” you repeat, looking straight into his twisted soul.  No one in their right mind would order a 911.

 

Your face, clearly aghast, reignites the fire within Loki.  This is an opportunity for him to showcase his strength.  Perhaps when you see him guzzle the strongest mix in the house, you’ll finally show interest.  A woman in her right mind would.

 

Loki flicks his eyebrows upward once.  “Don’t be afraid.”

 

You hum a quiet “ _If you say so_ ”, dragging your feet towards the untouched bottle of Devil Springs in the bar.  Bringing it with you to the mixing station, Loki observes you with a piqued curiosity.  Your fingers grasp the bottle like spider legs.  The clinking of ice cubes against the glass sounds a bit like music; when you pour the liquor over the ice, it looks like art.  You grab the bottle of red Kool Aid and squirt a tiny shot into the glass.  The red slices through the clear vodka with a downward splash, tinting it slightly pink.  Loki’s eyes roam over your profile – eyes, nose, and lips – then back to your hands, which are now slicing a strawberry in half.  You drop one half into the glass, disturbing the currents of the fluid.

 

He has never been so captivated.

 

“One glass of liver cancer for you,” you say, taking in a sharp breath as you wait for Loki to take a sip.  “Please don’t sue.”

 

You’ve had a sip of 911 before, and were so close to dialing the number.  It’s the worst thing in the world, second to drinking it straight.  If you had a least favorite mix, it would be 911.  The Kool Aid doesn't do jack to tone down its strength; _water_ isn't even used to tone it down either.  It is actual death in a glass.  You’re slightly hesitant giving the drink to Loki.

 

The 1975 blares “Settle Down” in the speakers, the jolly drumming pounding on the air.  Those who are nearby stop to watch Loki drink.  He rests the rim of the glass on his bottom lip, locking eyes with you.  When your eyes click with his, he throws the drink into his mouth in one go.  People wait…

 

Loki barely twitches.  They don’t know that he is literally not of this world, and could therefore tolerate alcohol better than _anyone_ on Earth (apart from Thor and the captain), and neither do you.  Your jaw drops when Loki twirls the halved strawberry using his tongue between his teeth, biting down on it with ease.  Everyone else who saw is in varying forms of shock, awe, and pure concern.  The drink was sharp, yes, but to Loki it tasted like flavored water.

 

For the remainder of your shift, you avoid Loki with effort.  But it is hard considering he is seated right beside Stan for whom you are responsible.  Loki and the old man have struck up a conservation; once or twice, the man gives a chuckle at something Loki says.  You busy yourself by attending to the orders of the other patrons.  Thankfully, as the night drags on, the bar comes to life, and you find yourself needing to attend to six people at a time.

 

Not ignoring Loki’s remarks, of course.  He doesn’t leave you alone.  He keeps throwing sleazy lines at you in hopes of catching your interest.  You aren’t even close to being interested.  Instead, you laugh raucously when he says an especially cheesy sentence (“You look like the kind of woman who paints.  I wouldn’t be surprised for art to attract art.”), or when he compliments something about your physiology.  When he mentions the curvature of your hips, you nearly slam into the Devil Springs bottle from laughing.

 

And then, at around 10:45, just fifteen minutes before the end of your shift, Loki leaves.  He gives no warning, tucking his payment in the black check holder.  You don’t notice his absence until Stan points it out.

 

“The man with the weird name is gone,” he says.

 

Curious, you turn around from cleaning the taps to glance at the empty space beside Stan.

 

“When’d he leave?” you can’t help but ask.

 

“A few minutes ago,” he says.  The bottle of tea is emptied now, and Stan is calmed.  “I kind of thought he was a bit shady at first, y’know, but he’s actually pretty decent.”

 

“Really.”

 

“I can tell he likes you,” Stan says.  You only shrug in response, though it pleases you that someone has taken interest in you.  Not that you were waiting or anything.

 

At 11, you clock out and call Stan’s daughter.  You live just a few blocks away from The Layers whereas Stan’s house is ten miles away.  You take him with you out front where his daughter is parked and waiting.

 

“He got his fill?” she questions, hinting.

 

“Yup,” you say, smiling.  “Best brandy in the house.”

 

You wave at the car as it speeds past you on the gravelly parking lot.  You reach into your bag for your phone, assisted by the dim yellow lighting of the entrance.  When you look up, you almost scream.

 

“I’m sorry!” Loki panics a little.  “I-I didn’t mean to startle you.”

 

“What- What are you doing out here?” you demand.  “Lurking in the dark like a creep.  I thought you left.”

 

His eyes twinkle.  “Did you look for me?”

 

The yellowish dimness manages to hide the pink that now cover your cheeks.  “Stan told me.”

 

A thick silence settles over the two of you.  You turn on your heel to head the other way when he grasps your wrist.  You about-face sharply, shaking his hand from your arm.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you…” he says, gulping.  The realization of his actual height hits you in the neck as you strain to meet his eyes.

 

“You don’t seem to mean a lot of things,” you reply.

 

He beams genuinely at the ground.  “I would agree.”

 

When he looks up, your heart lurches.  You never thought anybody would look good under yellow lighting, but here is this gigantic man, proving you wrong.

 

“Back inside, I’m aware I was acting a bit impudent."

 

“A bit?”

 

He chuckles, and you can’t help but smile.

 

“I would like to make it up to you,” he says.  Your face relaxes.  “If you don’t mind.”

 

You squint a bit.  “How?”

 

“Dinner, perhaps?  Tomorrow?” he suggests, hopeful.  “I’m not familiar with the city yet, but I’ll find a place.”

 

A full minute passes.  Within those sixty seconds, you give him a good once-over, trying to read the emotions on his face, and the ones he might be hiding.

 

You give him a small smile.

 

“No.  I can’t.  I’m sorry.”

 

Loki’s hope plummets until it explodes, creating a vacuum in his head.  No woman has said no to him.  Ever.

 

“It’s been a while since someone’s shown actual interest in me,” you explain, “and I probably shouldn’t pass you up.  But… I’m not a fan of bar-flirting.  Or asking-people-out-at-the-bar.”

 

Loki gulps, almost traumatized.  “I… I don’t know what to say.”

 

Your smile grows, but it isn’t mocking.  “Do you like me, Loki?  Genuinely?”

 

He nods without hesitation.  “I-I came here looking for something temporary, until I saw you.  I don’t want to sound hackneyed, but I think that you’re _especially_ interesting.  And I want to know more about you, truly.”

 

“Then you know you’re going to have to try harder.”  You take a step closer to him.  “If you can take a 911, you can take anything.”

 

He laughs, then stops when you tiptoe up to kiss him on the cheek.  He is completely frozen by your action.  When you return flat on your feet, you give him a wink before heading home the other way.  He melts.

 

Maybe you can try crossing the bar from now on.

 

 

 


End file.
